Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Wednesday, 21 August 2013

Ten years ago on a Spanish holiday, after several hours
lying on a lounger under the fierce Mediterranean sun, it seemed timely to
replenish my bottled water supplies. Clad only in boxer shorts and well worn
flip-flops, and deploying my metronomic, energy efficient, stride pattern (head
down, elbows out, short steps, shuffling gait), I soon arrived at the entrance
to the small, local supermarket.

Aware of the lack of air-conditioning in this establishment,
I darted towards the drinks section and soon located the hefty multi-pack of
eight 1-litre bottles of water. As I headed for the check out, the stifling
heat impacted upon my senses, distorting my vision and producing a
soft whistling sound in my ears. Mercifully, the queue at check out was short.

The supermarket owner’s decision to bake their own baguettes
in-house no doubt seemed like a winner at the time. The smell of freshly made
bread at the check out was clearly meant to entice customers into an additional
purchase. Presumably not considered was the impact of having a large, working
stainless-steel oven positioned next to the cash till and within touching
distance of shoppers waiting to pay for their goods in a non air-conditioned
premise in southern Spain.

While standing in the queue, with my 8-pack clasped under my arm, the polythene wrapping accelerated my rate of perspiration. Sweat
flowed in rivulets through clumps of grey chest hair and, upon reaching the
imposing gut region, combined with viscous slithers of Ambre Solaire to form an
alluring milk-like substance. Further south more watery, faster moving trickles
could be detected as they intermittently darted into my darker recesses. Meanwhile,
my already sun-charred skin was being braised by the heat from the oven.

Worse still, the queue at the check out did not seem to be
moving. The obstruction was another Englishman, his two children by his side,
unloading the numerous contents of his trolley. Clearly one of the few
holiday-makers for whom the renting of an apartment really did mean
self-catering, he was completing his weekly shop. Pale skinned and all three
clad in white t-shirts and matching peaked caps, it was evident that they had
sensibly evaded the sun for the duration of their stay. As his last item (a box
of bran-flakes) was registered by the senorita at the cash till, there was an
audible ripple of relief from the fleshy, and increasingly sweaty, masses
queuing behind him.

Relief reverted to dismay when dad turned to his children
and asked, “Don’t those baguettes smell lovely; shall we get some for our tea
Benjamin?” Recognising that it is good parenting to actively involve
one’s offspring in the decision making process, he followed up with, "Should we
get four large ones or half a dozen of the small?”

Expectantly, the senorita had by this time opened the hefty
oven door and, with metal tongs at the ready, was awaiting further instruction.
Consequently, a wall of hot air assaulted my senses. My fluid loss was such
that, despite having eight litres clasped in my hand, I was in danger of
experiencing a net loss since stepping over the threshold. Feeling on the point
of collapse, my poached brain tried to fathom whether it would be less
embarrassing to collapse there on the floor at the feet of Mr. Sensible or to
stagger to the exit and fall at the roadside. Vivid kaleidoscopic images
intruded of my falling somewhere between the two options, pulling over the rack
of inflatable pool accessories on the way down, and lying helplessly on my back
in an oily puddle surrounded by stray flip-flops and a blow-up Dalmatian.

Movement of the queue returned my attention to the present.
Baguettes finally dispensed, I quickly paid for my water and escaped onto the
street outside and into the relative cool of the direct Spanish sunlight.
Numbness radiated along my right arm, under which was firmly embedded my
plastic coated 8-pack which by now felt as if it had fused into my skin and
muscle. I squatted for a few moments in an effort to restore my usual poise, pedestrians
having to swerve to avoid me.

Balance soon restored, I stood up and (with head down,
elbows out, short steps, shuffling gait) set off on the return journey to my
apartment complex. Having stored the bottled water in my fridge, and with
paperback in hand, I returned to my poolside sun lounger.